They always come back, she says.
Right
to this spot.
The
bank gleams with snowy petals.
He
loves me, he loves me not.
Daisies
fall from her hands
as
the geese pass overhead.
She
leaves her travail behind,
buys
a ticket across the sea.
She
has never seen so much sun.
She
has lived long enough
to
be unreasonably wanted
by
someone.
She
brings back a story to tell
these
long winter nights:
My true love stood
on
the green bank
and
all that is ugly in life
flew
south...
She
walks or they walk together
along
the river in her mind—
And
the flowers say
what
they always say,
We are here for the taking—
And
the water waves
goodbye
over rocks—
unlike
the calm she came for,
a song
to steal her heart.
The Old Woman of the Sea
Can you hear me talking to myself?
I've
been in bed for two days,
and my legs don't work.
She
is catching her breath
after climbing the steps
that lead from the sand.
Resting her cane on the seawall,
she struggles with the earbuds
from her Walkman.
I was going to give these
to you. I've been listening
to Debussy.
The cords break free
and I place the foam tips
over my ears. La Mer.
She
smiles as I praise
the sound quality—
it’s the smile of a woman
who owns a sure thing
that time won't change
like everything else.
The tide is coming in.
Enjoy
your walk, she
says
through
perfect red lips.
The Landscape We Knew
Decades ago, on New Year’s Eve,
lights went out and fierce winds
toppled trees. We gave up trying
to dance on the slick, waxed,
spring-loaded floor, drove home
on dangerous roads—then
you stayed while the wind
finished its work.
By daylight, the city showed
a battleground, crammed
with damage under strange
open spaces where branches
had tethered the sky.
They say if you breathe into
an elephant’s trunk, it knows
your scent forever. When winter
gusts roar, your love revives
as if the wind brought it here.
Branches litter the ground
like before.
A savant plumbs the depths
of music and pulls up a chest
of chains and pearls.
Under the Blood Moon
I’m on the floor by the bed
watching a lunar eclipse
through the glass door, craning
my head. Just past midnight,
the ruthless shadow swallows
what’s left of the light—
leaving a faint, dark echo
tinged with red. The rocks,
who have seen this how
many times, accept their
weightless blanket—
while stars and planets
burn brighter, winding
and dancing like snakes.
Arms wrapped around
my knees, I stare at my feet,
which suddenly appear small—
stretch out my legs, also
those of a child—a child
waiting for her mother to die,
a child waiting for freedom.
For Helena
Trees and stars
need a certain distance
to thrive—no closer.
You taught me this,
planting seeds in the shape
of constellations.
I’m a clumsy learner
with good intentions—
uprooting mistakes
and starting over.
I get there eventually—
patient, watchful,
you beam on.
Cynthia Anderson has published eleven poetry
collections, most recently Full Circle (Cholla Needles, 2022).
Her poems appear frequently in journals and anthologies, and she is a Pushcart
Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She makes her home in the Mojave Desert near
Joshua Tree National Park. www.cynthiaandersonpoet.com
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